On the Tuesday before last I was fortunate enough to receive the very great honour of
being invited to attend the famous 'Monks' Tea Party' in the grounds of the magnificent
Rumpleford Abbey in Oxfordshire.

I should point out that whilst there are many who
have witnessed this extraordinary occasion for themselves, few outsiders have ever been
asked to participate. I therefore found myself in great anticipation of the event,
and the subject of much envy by my colleagues.

The patron saint of gravel

Rumpleford Abbey, founded in 1506, is one of the few to have survived Henry VIII's
dissolution of the monasteries and is dedicated to St Jemima of the Holy Rock, the patron
saint of gravel. Architecturally, it is quite a remarkable example of medieval
craftsmanship, and new visitors to the site are inevitably awed by its extensively carved
vaulted halls and the wide sweeping arches that threaten to enclose the sky itself.

But there's something else about the place that takes the breath away; something elusive
and unseen, yet undeniable. Possibly, it's the feeling of history one gets when
standing in the shadow of its great walls. Or maybe it's the sense of godliness, of
sanctity, of an unshakeable belief so strong that even the most secular of visitors can
feel it emanating from the very ground.

Whatever the explanation, Rumpleford Abbey
is steeped in an atmosphere that is derived from more than just bricks and mortar.

A slow and steady pace

Monastic life has always followed a slow and steady pace here, and a careful study of
the history of the abbey will reveal little by way of drama or incident. During the
seventeenth and eighteenth centuries the number of monks living here swelled to somewhere
in the region of two hundred, but since then the order has steadily dwindled.

In
1977 the brotherhood was down to twelve and the possibility of Rumpleford Abbey being
forced to close was a very real one. Had it not been for the foresight of the Abbot
at that time, Father Robert Grass, this secluded island of pastoral calm may have been
buried beneath some ghastly out-of-town retail park. Its terraced allotments and
delicately tended rose gardens may have been consumed by an arid tarmacadam playa with
bays marked out for over eight hundred cars. Its cool, shaded cloisters,
echoing to the timeless drip, drip, drip of water on ancient stone, may have been engulfed
by a family theme pub with a fake mahogany bar and a play area for the kids.

And its
chapel - ah, the Chapel! The very heart of the abbey, where the air itself seems
steeped in faith as if generations of prayer are clinging to the warm motes of dust that
float in the fusty air - well, that could so easily have been devoured by the sound and
vision section of a major electrical retailer.

Novelty pop-up prayer books

Father Grass saw all these things as distinct possibilities, and realised that if the
abbey's proximity to the A329 could be advantageous to a potential developer, it could
also be of service to the brotherhood.

He was aware that attempts at raising revenue
had been made at many similar locations by capitalising on the tourist and day-tripper
market - discretely and tastefully, of course. But Father Grass realised that it
would take more than picture postcards, souvenir plates and novelty pop-up prayer books to
really make a difference. Oh no, he was determined to go about it properly.

Father Grass spent the next year and a half working out every detail of his plan.
He spent many long hours in consultation with all sorts of experts and advisors -
engineers, financiers, marketing people, management consultants... hell, even the odd
bishop. He spent months touring Europe looking for investors with the vision to back
his ambitious scheme.

Eventually his ideas came together and coalesced into a solid,
workable project, and in the spring of 1979 'Monkworld' finally opened its gates to the
public.

The monks were loving it

There was, inevitably, much criticism surrounding Father Grass's decision to turn
Rumpleford Abbey into a theme park. Some thought that the hall of mirrors, the
Ferris wheel and the pirate ship would prove damaging to the dignity of the institution,
and be at odds with the quiet, contemplative existence traditionally pursued by the monks.

Father Grass responded to such objections by pointing out that the monks were
loving it and that, anyway, many of the rides were instructive, indicating clear religious
themes. The rollercoaster, for instance, was a very obvious analogy for life: full
of ups and downs, but reminding us that whenever we are at our lowest, God is always there
to pull us up to the next peak.

And then there was the log flume, of course - if
that wasn't the perfect illustration of the importance of baptism, then Father Grass
really didn't know what was.

That said, Grass was sensitive to the need for some sort of religious dimension to the
day-to-day routine of the monastery. He saw Monkworld not just as an opportunity to
make money, but also to educate the public about life within the order. He wanted to
public to be able to come in and see monks in their natural habitat, going about their
everyday tasks, and to this end he instigated the Monks' Tea Party.

A rampaging wildebeest from the abbey's petting zoo

Now, some twenty-five years later, the daily Monks' Tea Party is what Rumpleford Abbey
is best known for, not just locally, but all over the world.

Monkworld has spent
millions on providing the very latest, state-of-the-art rides and attractions. It
has sacrificed several acres of its grounds to provide extensive parking for the visitors
that throng here each summer. It can boast the most diverse selection of restaurants
and family theme pubs of any attraction in Europe. But it is images of the Monks'
Tea Party that adorn the mugs, the T-shirts, the key rings and the baseball caps that are
sold in the gift shop in the abbey's chapel.

Father Grass's untimely death in 1983,
beneath the hooves of a rampaging wildebeest from the abbey's petting zoo, prevented him
from seeing his vision reach its maximum potential. But I think he would have been
proud.

I know that I'm feeling quite proud as, in the company of seven other monks, I walk out
into the main quadrangle and seat myself at the table that has been erected in the central
enclosure. The crowd is already gathered around the perimeter, segregated from the
monks by sturdy wire netting. A huge round of applause goes up, and I feel
simultaneously elated and slightly self-conscious.

Struck by lightning whilst reaching out for a chocolate digestive

It's been like this for years
now: every afternoon, at four o'clock precisely, the monks come out to take tea, and every
afternoon an eager congregation is waiting for them. In thirty years the Monks' Tea
Party has only ever been cancelled twice - once, as a mark of respect on the occasion of
Father Grass's funeral, and then again in 1995 when Brother Maynard was unexpectedly
struck by lightning whilst reaching out for a chocolate digestive.

There seems no possibility of inclement weather upsetting today's proceedings.
It's a particularly warm and pleasant afternoon as the china cups are passed around the
table.

Brother Kneddley, sitting beside me, kindly pours the Earl Grey from a large,
earthenware teapot. Orange squash and fizzy pop are also available, and I notice
that most of the monks favour the latter choice. Brother Kneddley, I should mention,
is a relative newcomer to the tea party. Most of the other monks have been
participants in this charming ritual since its instigation, but up until last June Brother
Kneddley was an operator on the 'Pilates of the Caribbean' - an interesting ride which
takes as its premise the highly speculative idea that the descendants of the Roman
procurator Pontius Pilate were all bloodthirsty buccaneers who hung out in the West
Indies.

Brother Kneddley told me that he had gained his promotion to the tea party
through 'dead man's shoes'. Quite literally in fact - a vacancy had arisen after an
elderly monk had expired, mid-sitting, and fallen face first into a Victoria cream
sandwich. Competition for the position was fierce, and when Brother Kneddley was
told that he had been successful, he was over the moon. He was also delighted to
learn that his predecessor's footwear came as part of the deal, and he took great delight
in showing me his battered leather sandals under the table.

Crisps of various denominations

This sort of friendly banter exemplifies the spirit of the occasion, but then the food
starts to arrive and the conversation is reduced to a glimmer as we eye the large mounds
of sandwiches that are piled up in the centre of the table.

Once the paper plates
have been handed around, we begin to tuck in. The egg and cress is pleasant, the
salmon and cucumber is acceptable but I have been advised to avoid the tinned ham.
There are sausage rolls and crisps of various denominations, but when I mention that all
we are lacking is the cheese and pineapple on sticks, I am met with a moment of stunned
silence, followed by a low voice at my elbow explaining that 'cheese is the devil's work'.

I am a little unnerved by the effect of my faux pas. I'm also slightly unsettled
by the crowds that surround us, chattering amongst themselves, pointing and clicking away
with cameras at every mouthful.

I ask Brother Kneddley if he ever feels intimidated
by being on display like this. Sometimes he does, he tells me. But he explains
that he is a born performer - to him, being in front of a crowd like this is his food and
drink.

Ragged teeth against the darkening sky

I try to divert my attention from the spectators with a steadfast examination of the
buildings on the edge of our enclosure. Walls are set like ragged teeth against the
darkening sky; broken rooftops and smashed towers suggest a history of violence, but I am
assured that the damage is recent and that the impression is false. These scars are
not the result of cannon fire or catapult, but of wrecking ball and pneumatic drill - the
abbey has been deliberately distressed to imply a much more dramatic past than it can
realistically lay claim to.

As I meditate on this I am suddenly distracted by a corned beef and pickle sandwich
that hurtles through the air, just three inches shy of the end of my nose. It lands
with a damp 'plop' on Brother Kneddley's shoulder and he, with impeccable timing, slowly
cranks his head to peer at it with disdain. I cannot help but suppress a giggle, and
this quickly metamorphoses into a guffaw as a scotch egg comes careering down from the
other end of the table, bounces twice then buries itself deep in a bowl of salt and
vinegar flavoured Pringles.

There is also much laughter from the crowd, followed by a spontaneous round of
applause. They've come from miles around to witness the anarchic antics of these
mischievous monks, and they're not going to go home disappointed.

I retaliate by launching a furious fusillade of vol-au-vents

The table erupts
into a frantic flurry of performance as food ricochets back and forth. Peanut butter
sandwiches are smeared across faces, beakers of Ribena are upended over heads.

It's
impossible not to get involved, and as soon as I am caught in the crossfire I retaliate by
launching a furious fusillade of vol-au-vents across the battlefield that had once been
merely a table.

And then, just as it seems that all the ammunition is spent, the
jelly and the ice cream arrive and the whole thing kicks off again. One poor man's
face is pushed into a trifle the moment it is set upon the table. Another finds
himself struggling to prevent the greater portion of a blancmange from being rammed down
his cassock, but still manages to get in a good retaliatory swing at his attackers with a
treacle tart, in spite of his discomfort.

By the time our little tea party is over, the table and its immediate vicinity are
awash with confectionery, making it treacherous underfoot as we get up to leave.
The applause is deafening, the crowd are ecstatic.

Watch out for the pretzels

It appears that each of the monks
has their share of supporters in the crowd, for I notice waving banners bearing legends
like "Give 'em Hell, Brother Redmond" and "Watch out for the pretzels,
Brother King".

There is a good spirit amongst the monks as we all pile into the
communal showers to rinse the coleslaw from our shoulders and wash the jelly from our
necks. Everyone agrees that it was a good show, and there's even some playful
flicking of towels as we climb back into fresh vestments.

The sun is setting as I emerge from the shower block and Monkworld is beginning to close for
the evening. For the visitors, and for myself, there is a brief opportunity for one
last go on the Tower of Babel Helter Skelter or Ezekiel's Flying Saucer ride, and maybe a
quick visit to the gift shop to pick up a novelty revolving friar.

Then it's time to
leave. I'm sad to go, but it has been an amazing day: one that has left me with many
happy memories and a deeper understanding of monastic life. But I'm worried that my
experience has also left me with a sizeable chunk of pork pie wedged in my left ear, so as
I pull out onto the main road and point the car in the direction of home, I make a mental
note to book an appointment with my doctor in the morning.